I don’t make art anymore than I make cents. Cheap isn’t easy in any sense, there’s always illogical copycats paying poets with innocence. Life ain’t free.

This message in the bottle is my sleek way of stuffin' that good ole old crow full throttle, and it's lingering swagger back into my obvious nothin'. Now I'll never be a pre-teen model.  
My grip to the bottle is furious followed by a sincere pen to the paper, new headlines feature my naughty by nature, marked **** quiet styled lyricist, kickin' back with words of a dark sided linguist.  I'd insist just blowing smoke up that *** but I'm dead ******' serious. I need to  be reassured that the message in the bottle does IN FACT exist.

With a mouth full of bile,
I kiss your rotting lips.
I spew my rancid seed
on your blackened eyes
and know they will soon
be crusted shut, tainted
by my sickly venom.

I am poison.

I seep into
your wet parts and
consume all that is good and pure,
leaving nothing but **** in
your bloodstream, ***** in your lungs.

I am malignant by nature,
malevolent by choice.

And I have chosen you as next.